Through Thin Doors
by DreamTailor
Summary: Lestrade visits Baker Street, only to hear Sherlock and John doing something he really shouldn't be eavesdropping in on. Crack/oneshot.


Lestrade couldn't help but notice that Sergeant Donovan rolled her eyes as they turned on to Baker Street, a short but audible snort of disapproval releasing itself from her. He parked his unmarked police vehicle outside the flat, unbuckled his safety belt and turned toward her. She merely nestled back into the seat, crossed her arms, and stared straight ahead into the inky, glowing London night. Lestrade dragged a weary hand down his face; of course she would be uncooperative.

"Listen, I know you dislike it as much as I do..."

"I just don't understand," she said venomously, effectively cutting him off, "why we always need to run to that freak for help. It's making us and all of Scotland Yard look bad."

"I know, but we need this case cleared up as soon as possible." Lestrade sighed. The truth was, they were stumped. For three weeks his team had been stumbling around the back alleys of Chelsea trying to find the connection between a bloodstain, a compass and a salt shaker. _God help us if even Sherlock can't figure it out_, he thought bitterly.

Lestrade opened the car door. "Are you coming?" he asked, despite knowing the answer.

"Nope." She answered.

He decided not to fight it. Closing the door, he sauntered up to 221B, pulling his coat closer around him to fight off the sudden chill. Pushing the black door open, he entered into the hall, thankful for the warm burst of air that greeted him. _John must've paid the heating this month_, Lestrade deduced, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. He could hear Mrs. Hudson's television buzzing quietly from behind thin walls, and decided not to bother her by announcing himself. Slowly and silently he ascended the worn stairs to the flat.

He reached the door, raising a fist to knock, but something stopped him. Beyond the door he could hear Sherlock's baritone voice speaking quietly, which was odd considering he was often loud enough to hear from the downstairs hallway. Lestrade wasn't sure what possessed him to do it, but he unfurled his fisted hand and laid it on the door, then pressed his ear to the painted wood and listened.

"Oh…ah! S-Sherlock! That hurts!" It was clearly John's voice.

"Just hang on, it'll feel good in a second." Sherlock's voice seemed to vibrate the wood.

There was a squeak of a spring. Lestrade furrowed his brow.

"AH! NO! That hurts more! Not so hard."

"Well I'm trying not to…"

"Wait, wait, shift it in a bit more…ooh," John groaned, "right there! That's the spot…"

Lestrade's eyebrows shot to his hair line, and his jaw dropped open. He began to feel a hot blush sweep over his face.

"My God John, it's so stiff," Sherlock said as the springs squealed again.

"Well, I've got you to thank for that. Not that you helped much."

He heard Sherlock snort as John groaned again.

"You're so loud when we do this."

"Well, it's been a while…Where did you even learn to do this?"

"An Italian fellow."

He decided to ignore that last comment.

Lestrade stood stupefied. He knew how close Sherlock and John were. He had even suspected…well…as much as everyone suspected, that there was more than friendship behind Baker Street's closed doors. Even so, Lestrade couldn't help but feel a bit traumatised at what he had stumbled upon. Apparently he still had some innocence deep down inside. Well, _had_.

Suddenly a hand clasped tightly down on his shoulder, and Lestrade shot his hand out to cover his mouth and trap an outburst. Wide eyed, he turned to see Donovan standing behind him. She opened her mouth to speak, but he silently shushed her.

"What is taking so long?" she hissed.

"OH, AH-HAH." John's breathing was loud enough to hear now. Donovan's eyes widened as she stared intensely at the door.

"Really, I don't know why you insist I do it. You should be better at this than me John. You are a doctor after all, probably had lots of practice with those army boys. Surely you'd know where to push for maximum pleasure."

"Yeah, flip over and I'll 'maximum pleasure' you," John grunted, his voice sounded more muffled.

Donovan turned toward Lestrade and mouthed 'no way'. Suddenly a glint lit up her eye and she whipped out her mobile. Now, Lestade still counted himself a friend of Sherlock and John's, and as such he felt determined to protect their dignity. Reaching out, he meant to snatch the phone from Donovan's hand, however, only succeeded in knocking it to the floor with a loud thump.

"Wait, Sherlock, did you hear that."

Lestrade and Donovan stared at one another, fear setting their mouths in tight lines.

"Hear what?"

"That crack."

"Crack?"

"Oh Jesus, Sherlock, it came from my lower back. I swear if you've broken me…"

"Don't be absurd."

Lestrade and Donovan let out a collective sigh. Lestrade motioned toward the door, determined to get the hell out of Baker Street. Both stood and turned, only to freeze on the spot.

"Oh hello!" Mrs. Hudson chirped, toting a tray of squares and blocking the staircase. Lestrade gaped like a fish out of water.

"Didn't hear you pop in," she tittered merrily, "would have put the kettle on."

The knob clicked as the door swung open from behind them, and occupying the doorway adorned in his silk blue night gown was Sherlock.

"Detective Inspector! I was expecting you to be around sometime tonight."

"H-How…" Lestrade fumbled.

"You always do. I suppose you've come about that salt shaker case. You're looking for the busboy at the sandwich bar at Trafalgar Square. Ask him some questions about his late girlfriend and her jack russel and comeback later with more details."

"Oh, um..a-alright," he managed to stammer out.

"Will you be staying for tea?" Mrs. Hudson asked sweetly.

Donovan took over. "No, we should really get back to that case. The busboy. Before closing time. Salt shakers." Turning sharply on her heel she alighted down the staircase and was out the door.

"Right." Lestrade said, nodded to Sherlock and fled after her.

John padded over to the doorway, fists rubbing at his lower spine. "Who was that?"

"Lestrade." Sherlock said curtly.

"What'd he want?" John asked, stifling a yawn.

"The usual."

"How's your back dear? I thought I'd bring you boys up a treat as thanks for helping me move around all that furniture today."

"Better, surprisingly," John quipped, shooting a glance at his flatmate. "it was almost worth throwing my back so Sherlock could crack it right ."

"Oh, I know that alright. I've got a hip." Mrs. Hudson winked. John decided not to dwell on that.

Sherlock merely smirked as he watched Lestrade's car speed down the street.


End file.
